


A Study in Temptation

by 7ia



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Sexual Content, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-16 12:17:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5828275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7ia/pseuds/7ia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solas Wolfe has been a professor of history at Ferelden State University for nearly fifteen years, nearly approaching tenure. One night, he decides to visit a college bar, where he meets a bartender who will eventually change his life: Serian Lavellan. Professor Wolfe's average life of deciphering ancient Elvhen texts and grading papers is turned around, as bartender turns student turns lover. A relationship with a student threatens his tenure, his credibility, and livelihood... but can Solas stay away despite the risks?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Deviation

The sound of the clock pervaded the room. Endlessly ticking time past, it was a constant factor in the dark stillness of his office. He reached across his desk to click on the old FM stereo perched on a teetering pile of theses. The baritone voice of the evening news broadcaster filled the emptiness. He did not feel so alone, despite his company keen on discussing the most recent school shooting. Grim and fatalistic – someone had even used those words to describe him.

Dropping his pen, he leaned back in his chair, staring at the wall. _A fifteen-year-old ended the life of twelve students in a Sahrnia school today. The shooter, whose name has not yet been released, is in the emergency room with several self-inflicted gunshot wounds…_ His attention faded out, barely focused on the calendar on the other wall. It was littered with sticky-notes in his own scrawling handwriting. Thesis meetings, class schedule, office hours, staff meetings, history club, advising…

“Professor Wolfe? You’re still here?” the security guard poked through the space of his open door. A pair of pointed ears and a concerned face was thrown into the fluorescent light of his office. He had his hand on the black nightstick, the other hand on his flashlight as if he was about to club any potential intruder.

“Ah, Loranil. Yes - I’ve been trying to catch up on grading papers,” Solas leaned forward in his high-backed leather chair, his elbows carefully placed on the piles of mediocre papers on the life and accomplishments of Kordillus Drakon I.

The security guard smiled as he leaned against the doorframe. “It’s eight o’clock on a Friday night. Shouldn’t you be out on the town?” Loranil teased gently. Solas was often in his office until late at night, his nose buried in a book or a pile of research papers. Some security guards would let him stay later, others swept him out at seven with an armful of papers clutched to his chest. Going ‘out on the town’ was not a character trait of his, and Loranil – who worked weekends – was privy to this information. Occasionally, Loranil would goad the professor into a game of cards to while away an hour. They would share campus gossip, debate politics, share a few fingers of vodka that Solas kept stashed under his desk. Most nights were as eventful as Loranil throwing him a smile as he passed by every hour until he escorted the professor out of the building.

A smirk pulled at his mouth. “Are you kicking me out?”

“No, just encouraging,” Loranil responded.

Solas leaned over and flipped off the radio. He was done with listening about murderous children and troubled politicians. He shoved the stack of papers into his messenger bag – he had promised to deliver graded papers by Monday – and threw on his light wool coat. Loranil flicked off the light switch as Solas slipped out, the dim, ghastly green lighting the narrow hallway. “Thanks for recommending the book, by the way. Really an interesting read on the Qunari-Tevinter conflict,” Loranil walked at his shoulder, wearing an easy grin.

“I have another picked out once you’re done with that one. It’s a fiction piece on the slaves who built Tevinter. Very well researched, elegant prose,” Solas waited as Loranil scanned his card and held the door open.

“Want me to call you a cab?” Loranil peered outside. The night was unusually dark tonight – even with the street lamps lighting the empty parking lot.

The professor shook his head as he went outside. “No, thank you. I’ll be fine – my house is just a mile down the road. Let me know your final thoughts on the book when I see you next weekend,” Solas waved a hand as he departed down the road. Loranil vanished back into the lobby, presumably to do his rounds before he settled in with Solas’ recommended book.

Solas tucked his hands into his pockets as he walked along the sidewalk. Even without the wind, the night was uncommonly crisp. The chill nipped at his pointed ears and sharp chin, seeped into his clothes. Still, he appreciated the fresh air that filled his lungs, the comfortable quiet that wrapped around him. Solas hummed a tune, an old song his mother used to sing to him. As the professor stopped at a stoplight, his eyes flickered up to the bar right across the street. He passed the place walking to and from campus, never once stopping in. His stomach rumbled, as if on cue, beckoning him to switch up his routine. Leftovers did not sound appealing, nor did sitting in his usual armchair with the television on. He shifted the strap on his shoulder, looked both ways, and crossed the street.

A dark eyebrow quirked in amusement as he watched one of his students stumble out of the same bar he was about to enter, notice him, and immediately attempt to act sober. She stood up straight, shoved her blonde hair out of her eyes, and held the door open. “P-Professor Wolfe,” she slurred, grinning despite herself.

“Sera,” Solas greeted coolly. “Thank you.” As he walked by, he could hear her giggling and making a rude noise to her friends once she thought Solas was well out of earshot. He doubted the girl had even started on her term paper. Sera rarely bothered to come to class.

The bar was full with students and professors alike. At this point, Solas had half a mind to turn around to avoid unwanted drunken conversations. It was Friday, and most people in this town spent it by drinking their worries away. Papers, projects were a distant memory after a few shots. But Solas pressed forward, keeping his bag close to his person as he found a relatively quiet end of the bar to sit at. He slung his coat and bag over the back of his seat.

“What can I get ya to drink? Let me guess… a full-bodied red, a little sweet? A vintage for the gentleman?” the bartender slung a towel over his shoulder, looking at Solas expectantly.

A gentle smile graced his features. “Impressive. What gave me away?”

“The sweater,” the bartender answered as he pulled a bottle from the rack. Solas has just a moment to glance at the nametag before he turned his back.

_Serian._


	2. Acquiantance

The bar was evidently a popular place to be.  
  
His gaze swept the tables with curiosity. There was a wide range of ages that graced the bar tonight – from grey-haired specimens with themed ties around their necks to the thin twenty-somethings wearing crop tops and tight jeans. Very few tables mixed ages. The professors seemed content to drink craft beer and watch the basketball game while exchanging jokes. The students ordered rounds of shots and hard liquor while sizing up that friend of a friend who just _might_ be interested in going home with them tonight.

“Pst! Serian. Table four. Don’t look, but – what did I tell you about not looking?” Dorian hissed. He stood at the POS system (affectionately called Piece of Shit system), pretending like he was punching in an order for the kitchen.   
  
Serian grinned as his gaze flickered to table four despite his orders not to. Three were seated, looking out of place in the students-and-professors scene with their army fatigues. A blond man with perfectly coifed hair and broad shoulders, a woman with short, dark hair with a severe expression, and a monster of a man that would easily stand a head taller than the rest of the bar. Serian disregarded the woman – Dorian wasn’t the type to ask about them – and concentrated on the men. Before he had much time to peer at their badges, he felt Dorian’s hand whap him across the head. “For fuck’s sake. Why do you tell me not to look but you give me the table number?”  
  
Dorian ignored his remark. “The blond. What do you think?”  
  
“About?” A dark eyebrow quirked.  
  
“If he prefers holes or sticks.”  
  
That earned a laugh from the bartender. When did Dorian need to know if someone preferred a pair of tits to a dick? He flirted with _anyone_ , even without reciprocation. He specialized in making middle-aged women blush while subsequently opening their wallets for a larger tip. The right words, the gentle brush on the shoulder… Serian didn’t understand it, but he _did_ envy Dorian’s mastery with flirtation. Serian’s level of flirtation was not nearly as skilled as his friend and roommate. He wasn’t asked out as often and Serian did have to pay for more dinners than his mustachioed friend, but Dorian usually did bring him leftovers from the especially strange dates.

“Just go ask him. You’re pretty enough that even if he is straight he might make an exception,” Serian offered. He glanced back over at the table, making sure to step out of Dorian’s swing. The blond was handsome, well built – probably in some form of military or at least a gym rat. His friends were imposing, especially the big guy. They were the kind of people Serian would want on his side in case he ever got into a fight.

Dorian’s mouth drew into a thin line, as he appeared to be contemplating his next step. “Hey, it looks like your table seven needs your assistance,” Serian nodded in the direction of an all-female table. Two of them – a lanky elven woman and her short, dark-haired woman – were regulars, but the others with them Serian had never seen before. The elven woman always ordered large platters of fried food to go with her copious amounts of beer, the shorter one always smiling and laughing, usually just nursing her light beer, clearly enjoying the sight of the elven woman enjoying herself. Dorian bustled off to attend table seven. Serian watched as his friend continued to glance over to the blond man at table four. The bartender grinned and turned away lest Dorian catch him looking.

To give off the air of staying busy and _not_ watching Dorian ask out the blond man, Serian set to cleaning the granite bar top. Out of the corner of his eye, however, Serian watched as Dorian handed out checks to the elven woman and her companions to heading over to the blond man’s table. Dorian was working his most popular moves: touching the shoulder, flashing his straight, white teeth, and weaving little flirts into regular conversation. By the way the blond was blushing, he was either enjoying the attention or praying to whatever deity to stop Dorian’s advances. The big guy was laughing into his mug at his friend’s obvious embarrassment; the woman clearly torn between looking stern and amused.  
  
Spending time with Dorian, whether it was at work, out and about, or home was never dull. Work was much more fun when they could press their heads together and invent conversations for various bar patrons. He was usually amenable to watching old movies with Serian as long as he provided the alcohol. Dorian was always willing to share his colorful commentary and his sharp opinions on a little bit of everything. Being the prodigal son of a foreign diplomat gave Dorian a multitude of knowledge from histories, languages, politics… nearly everything. Serian’s parents had been something of gypsies, never staying in one place for very long, and couldn’t afford the top-notch private schools that Dorian’s parents could. Serian’s parents had often pilfered books from libraries and thrift stores, purchased the quarter-sale books from bins in thrift stores. Those tattered books were more or less his education, not to mention his brief stints in scattered public schools.

Dorian flitted to the next table, leaving the blond man a bright shade of red. Table seven had left, but he couldn’t help but watch as a bald elf walked in. Serian usually recognized regulars by their table number and their beverage of choice – they were, after all, only half a mile down from campus – but he didn’t recognize _this_ guy. He wore a woolen pea coat, something the handsome rogues from the old movies would don. There were a few tables left, but the elf with his pea coat and messenger bag sat at Serian’s relatively empty bar. _He looks like he belongs in a library with a cigar and one of those smoking jackets. What does he drink? Whiskey? Bourbon? Wine?_ Serian gave the elf a minute or two to settle in, to peel off the layer of wool to reveal a navy sweater vest with a black tie tucked underneath. He pretended to clean glassware while he watched the elf from the corner of his eye.  
  
“What can I get ya to drink? Let me guess… a full-bodied red, a little sweet? A vintage for the gentleman?” Serian was curious as to _why_ this particular gentleman decided to occupy a college bar with a worn pool table and a missing 10 ball. _Varric said he was going to fix that…_   
  
“Impressive. What gave me away?” His voice was warm and fluid, a sprinkling of a lilted accent.   
  
“The sweater,” he said, nodding towards the vest. He pulled a bottle from the top rack – not many drank red wine around here. Varric kept it around for the rich ladies and, evidently, guys like the one sitting as his bar. Serian poured him a glass, using the opportunity to inspect this bald pated elf a little more. His green eyes wandered his long, smooth face; his dimpled chin and planed cheeks, until the glass was nearly full. A sheepish grin pulled at his mouth. “Are you eating today or just drinking?”  
  
The elf was pulling a stack of papers from his bag. “Anything you would recommend?” 

_We don’t make filet mignon if that’s what you’re after._ Serian retrieved a menu. Most patrons were already drunk before they got here and craved greasy things – mozzarella sticks, jalapeño poppers, and the like. “I like the nachos.” They were laden with cheese and beef and sprinkled with some tomatoes so he felt a little better about tackling the heaping plate of artery-clogging tortilla chips.   
  
“I’ll take the nachos, then.”  
  
Serian went to go punch the order of nachos into the computer, baffled by the idea of sweater elf helping himself to nachos while drinking wine. Still, he had seen stranger things in the bar, things he would rather wipe from his memory. “Did you see the look on his face? Blushing like a virgin bride on her wedding night,” Dorian swaggered up to the bar. He looked quite pleased with himself, grinning from ear to ear, making that art nouveau mustache curl in an impossibly handsome way.  
  
“I could see his face like a beacon, all the way over here,” Serian snatched the receipts from his friend’s hand to cash out the tips. As usual, they were hefty tips. One patron had even written her name below her signature. _He never fails to impress._ “Did you catch his name, or did you just feel up his shoulders to satisfy your curiosity?”  
  
Dorian thumbed through the cash Serian handed him, then parted with several bills as Serian’s tip. “Cullen. He has some nice shoulders, mind you. Clearly the man takes care of himself. His friends are Bull and Cassandra. They’ll be downtown after this, invited me to come along. Not sure if the large fellow invited me for himself or for his blushing companion,” Dorian glanced over at Serian’s sole bar patron. He said nothing – uncharacteristically – but his little smirk said enough.

Serian wasn’t interested in hearing Dorian’s possible comments on mister nachos-and-wine. “So, you’re going out with them tonight? Do I need to follow you around so you don’t get too wasted and offer to blow him in the bathroom?”  
  
“I only did that once. Are you going to hang that over my head forever?”  
  
“Not until you apologize for telling that guy about the… incident,” Serian’s eyes narrowed at the man. Dorian looked sheepish, as they both were fully aware just _how_ intoxicated Dorian had been at the time. After a dozen shots, Dorian’s mind and lips didn’t work in sync as they did sober, and he ended up saying things he _thought_ were helpful but usually ended up scaring away Serian’s potential flings. Needless to say, Serian had carted an intoxicated Dorian home and slept alone that night.  
  
“Point taken. But no, I should be fine. Just… keep your phone close to you tonight, just in case things get a little out of hand, yes?” Dorian smirked. “By the way, I need a round of shots for Cullen's table, and my table twelve wants another double whiskey.”   
  
Serian set to making drinks – making sure to pour a little extra for Dorian’s new friends. Perhaps with a little extra alcohol in his system, poor Cullen would loosen up and be able to look Dorian in the eye without blushing. By the time he was done making drinks for thirsty patrons, Mr. Sweater’s nachos were up. The kitchen must have been slow because the nachos looked semi-decent. They even threw in some fresh guacamole and the lettuce looked exceptionally crisp. He placed the plate away from the scattered papers. The paper Mr. Sweater was working on was heavily marked with red ink. It took all he had not to openly laugh at the elf. “Quite the Friday night, huh?”   
  
Mr. Sweater smiled up at him above the rim of his wine glass. The corners of his eyes crinkled with humor. His eyes were grey, warm. “This is what you get for assigning a class of forty students to write an eight page paper and then promising them they’ll be graded by Tuesday,” he pushed a stack to the side to bring the plate of nachos closer to him.   
  
“Professor, huh? What do you teach?” Serian sipped at his soda. He had tried college when he was eighteen and lasted about half of the semester. Living in a cramped cinderblock dormitory with a guy who collected empty pizza boxes had been a special brand of torture, and all of the dorms were fully occupied so he couldn’t switch rooms. The professors were all droll, speaking into a computer screen and reading word-for-word off of PowerPoint slides. Dorian had been the only good thing to come out of his brief stint at college. Dorian hadn’t gone to some state university, no, but he had been his waiter and invited him out for drinks afterwards. There was no love connection, but they hit it off at three in the morning at one of the few 24-hour diners in the city over a stack of pancakes and a pot of burnt coffee.

“This semester I have Early Thedas History, Elvhen History, and The Chant of Light as Literature. I was hoping to instruct a course on Elvhen Language but there wasn’t enough interest and it was dropped,” Mr. Sweater said as piled some nacho filling onto a chip.   
  
“ _Ir abelas_ ,” Serian pulled the bottle from the rack and refilled the elf’s glass.  
  
“You speak the language?”   
  
Serian laughed. “That’s about it. I can say goodbye and hello, and my parents used to call me _da’len_. I do, however, know several curse words in Tevene. I’m nearly trilingual.” He leaned against the bar.   
  
Serian’s feigned confidence earned him another one of those charming smiles. A minimal flash of white teeth, paired with a crinkle of his grey eyes. It was like the smile was reserved solely for him. Then Mr. Sweater said something, rhythmic and foreign, melodic but familiar. He switched to the Common Tongue without pause – Serian must have looked intrigued, or confused, or maybe a little of both. “I said the wine-nachos pairing was quite good,” he chuckled, short but infectious. Serian smiled. At least the nachos didn’t scare him away. Mr. Sweater was easily the most interesting person that had sat at his bar in a long time, and disappointing him was out of the question. He wouldn’t mind if Mr. Sweater spoke to him in his Elvhen tongue all the time, even if all he murmured were diatribes.   
  
Unfortunately for Serian, he couldn’t just sit there and make Mr. Sweater smile all night – as much as he’d like to – and was called to make shots and imbibe bar patrons with more alcohol. Every so often he would glance over to the end of the bar counter, just to make sure Mr. Sweater was still hanging around, and to his relief he was still sitting there, sipping at his wine and grading papers. His was a calming presence amongst those clamoring to him for another shot. Still, Serian couldn’t complain about the activity – happy drunks left better tips.   
  
He managed to refill Mr. Sweater’s glass one more time and drop off the ticket. Dorian was flitting from table to table, unable to properly flirt with most of his customers with how busy it was, but he still managed to bring back decent tips. Usually Dorian’s good looks (and the fact he kept glasses full) was enough to earn him substantial tips and his efforts at flirtation was just bonus. Serian had little time to think about Mr. Sweater at his bar, which was a little disappointing. He had wanted to pick his brain on matters of history, maybe learn a phrase or two in Elvhen. The bar held steady, however, for another hour before there was a lull in service. Serian turned back to the corner chair to see how Mr. Sweater was doing, but he was gone.  
  
In his place was forty dollars despite the bill only between half the amount. Serian wasn’t in the habit of giving away free drinks, but he couldn’t deny that Mr. Sweater was his own brand of handsome and fascinating. Still, he would’ve liked to ask the elf his name. The crowd was getting rowdier and louder, something he imagined Mr. Sweater wasn’t a fan of. Maybe he would pop in again to sample the nachos on a slower night.   
  
“Serian, I need two pints of Redcliffe Light and a vodka soda,” Dorian called from the other end of the bar.  
  
“Roger that!” he called as he turned away from the elf’s empty seat. He didn’t have much time to lament, not with the bar so busy and rent due next week.


End file.
